Disclaimer: I tried to minimize the FrUK in this chapter as much as possible, but there is one sex scene in the middle. It is crucial to character development and understanding, especially that of Francis, so I urge you to read it. It was painful for me to write, but I felt that it was necessary to this story as a whole, so please, bear with me. It's not that explicit, nor that long.


"There is a man who would give his life
to keep a life you love beside you."

- Charles Dickens (a Tale of Two Cities) -


.: 11. Absence Makes the Heart Grow Paranoid :.


The next morning, Arthur came to breakfast clutching his head as if he were sporting a murderous migraine, and he limped in a way that suggested wooziness instead of his true disgust at still being able to feel Francis's expertly probing fingers ghosting around from the evening before. There were certain orifices that were meant only for one way traffic.

Sitting down to a fantastic breakfast of whatever parts were salvageable from last night's guiltily forsaken dinner, Arthur focused quietly on his food as he tried his best to pretend that he had forgotten what had happened the night before. He could still feel the tingling where Alfred's lips had touched his own; he could still taste the Marquess's sweet saliva, feel that warm breath caress his cheeks as their tongues had intertwined in a blissful moment that was sure never to repeat again.

But Arthur could blame it on being drunk, and for both of their sakes, the actor wrote it off this morning as the temporary amnesia of inebriation as well.

"Good morning," Alfred murmured quietly as he stepped into the breakfast room. Arthur looked up from attempting to read the paper (he still didn't quite know how to read or spell some of the more complicated political and societal words). The actor locked eyes with Alfred and the two of them averted their gazes almost instantly.

"Good morning," Arthur grumbled, taking a slow sip of his tea in order to have an excuse to say no further.

"How did you sleep last night?" Alfred tried, making his way over to the opposite side of the square table. Mid-stride, however, he paused and settled for the chair perpendicular to Arthur's instead, knowing that he couldn't handle many more accidental gazes this morning. A vantage point from the side was the best one for surreptitious glances without being noticed in return.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, bringing a hand up to his head as he massaged his temples. He knew what Alfred wanted to hear: words that meant things would move on perfectly from hereon out, that nothing in Arthur had changed since they first met so long ago, that Arthur wasn't already desperately in love, and that by the time he had realized, it had been already far too late to pull back out.

Well, Arthur didn't want any of Alfred's disgust, so he was more than happy to oblige.

"I have a blazing headache," Arthur complained, trying to get back into his friendly but irritable self, rather than act like some pathetically and horrifyingly lovesick fool. "I don't even remember much of last night. Something about a pub... The last thing I remember was stepping into the carriage."

Despite his wearily drooping eyes, Arthur was watching Alfred intently, and he could see the Marquess visibly relax upon the incorrect realization that Arthur hadn't remembered a thing.

That hurt.

Arthur wanted to remember, and he wanted very much for Alfred to feel the same way. But it was clear in the Marquess's more relaxed smile now that all the man wanted to do was move on and act as if nothing had happened. Alfred was clearly relieved, while Arthur was actually quite sullen. What a change.

Things seemed to have taken an interesting turn-around since the day Arthur had walked out of Alfred in the garden. So much in this relationship had evolved, and now the actor found himself wishing that Alfred would be so carefree in his demeanor once again. Alfred had never uttered a word in flirtatious jest toward Arthur ever since that day, and the actor had been quite happy with that.

Until now.

But it was his own fault for having reacted the way he did, and so Arthur told himself to cease his whining and just accept that this was how things were going to be. One-sided. Alone.

Breakfast proceeded awkwardly, with plenty of shifting around in chairs, fishing fruitlessly for conversation topics, and clearing throats to fill the silence. Nevertheless, as the meal wore on, and as Alfred tested the waters further to see whether or not Arthur really had forgotten, he became gradually more comfortable. He began to smile more, to become more chatty—a welcome change for the both of them.

How fortunate it was that it would be two extremely talented actors who would be in love in this situation. Otherwise, they might not have been able to hide their inner thoughts, feelings and opinions so well behind such easygoing facades—then again, perhaps that was a most unfortunate fact instead.

Small talk proceeded gradually from topic to topic, both of them skirting the main issue with great skill and delicacy. Arthur didn't care to talk about it, and Alfred was worried that he would trigger some memories—memories that he was sure would break whatever indescribable bond they had managed to cultivate into unsalvageable pieces.

Alfred was happy with how things were at the present, though. He had had plenty if time to think upon the matter as he had lain awake, deeply troubled, on a sofa last night (the main manor had only two bedrooms, and Alfred refused to venture into his mother's, no matter the need or cause). Alfred decided that he was perfectly happy with life at the present. He might not have been ecstatic, and it might have burned his heart every time he laid eyes upon the object of his dear affections, but all in all, Alfred was satisfied. It was "just enough," but just enough was where it would stay.

Thus, it was with a fondness this morning that he remembered the sweet taste of Arthur's mouth, the gentle touch of the actor's tongue trailing over Alfred's overly eager lips. Technically, that was their first real kiss, and no matter how twisted the situation had been, or how much Arthur had forgotten, Alfred would always remember. And that, to the Marquess, was the important part.

By the time breakfast was halfway through, at which point Alfred had had enough time to reconcile himself with his disappointed relief that Arthur had no memory of last night's events, the Marquess was almost grinning. After all, they had kissed. Arthur had kissed him. Who cared that it was under deep inebriation that had rendered the actor's judgment as useless? Arthur had kissed Alfred! Surely that meant something somewhere.

Arthur shot Alfred an odd look as he finished off a slice of bread. "You look positively murderous in your glee," he observed, his eyes trailing immediately to Alfred's full lips, where a tantalizing crumb was situated, almost mocking Arthur in an irritating reminder of what he could never have.

The actor forcibly dragged his eyes away, a blush creeping to his cheeks as he once again remembered the sensation of last night's intense kiss. Clearing his throat, Arthur continued, "Is there a reason I should be expecting blood this morning?"

Alfred chuckled brightly, the tone of his laughter having changed in quality and volume as the breakfast had worn onward. He placed his utensils down and smiled fondly at Arthur, not even realizing the tender expression that had managed to invade his visage.

Unfortunately, Arthur's eyes were averted, trained on the tablecloth lest they strayed again to places that beckoned at the actor with stronger melodies than a siren's song.

"There is no blood," Alfred assured Arthur. "I just thought it was funny the way you..." Alfred had been about to make up some obviously fantastical lie about Arthur's antics the night before, but then Arthur's real antics last night reappeared in his thoughts and Alfred was immediately silenced.

He struggled for a second before finishing, "It's nothing."

However, since they were on the subject of last night anyway, or at least they were in Alfred's head, now would have be as good a time as any to ask his question. The Question.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred looked away from the alluring actor and murmured, "So, what happened last night?"

Arthur almost dropped his fork.

The actor sputtered. "What happened? What do you mean? Should something have happened?" Feigning innocence, feigning innocence, feigning innocence. "Did something happen?"

Alfred had the grace to blush as his head snapped up to meet the actor's frantically worried gaze, completely misunderstanding that expression as one of worry that Arthur might have done something embarrassing, rather than of worry that Alfred might bring up last night's major development in their relationship.

"What? No. Nothing that I know of, at least." Alfred tried to move on quickly. "But I know you did come hom—err, here—inebriated, and after a visit with Francis, at that."

The Marquess's gaze darkened and the animated quality of his voice seized to exist as he turned on Arthur.

"Did he do something to you?"

Arthur groaned and hid his face in his hands. The wonder of acting drunk or hurt was that one could hide practically anything behind the guise of pain and tomfoolery. The tears of humiliation and the physical memory of Francis's avid explorations were what Arthur was struggling to hide now. Alfred was the last person the actor wanted to see that weak and defiled part of him; the Marquess deserved only the best.

And of course, Arthur could no longer even hope to provide that after his session with Francis—not that there had even been much hope to begin with.

After a moment of further pretending to massage his temples, the actor looked up and gave Alfred his best smile. It apparently worked, for Alfred's expression lightened immediately, and he gave Arthur a ditsy smile in return, unable to prevent himself from this natural reaction.

"Nothing of that sort happened," Arthur murmured, laughing. "Stop worrying. You ought to take a look at that ridiculous face of yours." His smile widened a bit more despite the teasing jab. It made Arthur happy to see Alfred glowing in such a light. Then again, Alfred had always been glowing recently. Perhaps that was what love did to the eyes.

Love, Arthur thought. He was still getting used to the idea, but ever since God had deserted him and he had, in return, deserted God, such topics were far easier to swallow.

"It was a good type of drinking," Arthur explained, turning back to his food, which used to look so delicious but now looked disappointingly mundane compared to the lusciousness that was Alfred F. Jones. "I had been drinking in mirth, so don't grow white hairs just yet." Arthur chuckled, and as an afterthought added, "You look perfect the way you are."

And before Alfred could reply, for Arthur could already see the surprise—and who knew what else—flitter over Alfred's expression, the actor quickly moved on.

Arthur proceeded to explain that he had gone to a pub merely to celebrate. He had finally done it, Arthur boasted with the strong artificial pride that only an actor could fathom. The actor triumphantly stated that he had convinced Francis out of sheer willpower, logic and might that the man had to leave Elizabeth alone. He had accomplished the task that troubled the both of them, and as such, he had felt the need to let loose. That was all. By just willpower, logic, and might.

Right.

This was fantastic but suspicious news to Alfred, of course, who then launched into a slew of incessant and pestering questions about the specifics of how Arthur had ever accomplished such. He knew Francis very well, and it wasn't at all like the man to give up his pursuit unless there was something much better to be had in return. And surely, after all these years, there still couldn't be anything more riveting and compelling to the focused Frenchman than the thought of Alfred's sadness, could there? Had Francis really finally found something else into which he could latch his desperate and dark talons?

Arthur didn't go into many details over the course of breakfast and the remaining day, and Alfred continued to doubt the validity of Arthur's claims, even as the actor reassured the Marquess time and time again that all was said and done.

Such apprehensions and suspicions began to vanish the next evening, however, when all three members of this demented love and torture triangle were present for a small gathering out in Edgware. It was actually the wedding celebration of the Duke and Duchess of St. Alban's, who had been recently married in private out in the northern countryside, and now returned to officially present themselves to society as one entity from hereon out.

Arthur—Elizabeth—and Alfred had arrived at relatively the same time, and were lightly chatting away, in the vaguely intimate and close manner that they had been able to achieve in the past couple of weeks. Such a development was of course further helped by the fact that Arthur was finally falling into his role as well. These flirtatious comments and bashful coquettish gestures were part of his game now. He wanted it just as much, if not more than, Elizabeth did. And as he grew more comfortable with this idea, closer to love and further from God, Arthur actually became happier. God had never shown himself to the actor, especially in the past few months. Alfred, on he other hand, was tangible. And oh how Arthur wished that Alfred would be even more tangible—so tangible that that word itself would come to mean the Marquess's own name.

It was a silent dream. A silly dream. And as such, the actor kept it to himself.

The conversation was proceeding very smoothly and comfortably when Ambassador Bonnefoy's name was announced. Alfred's head snapped up and Elizabeth froze, though she didn't quite know why. Arthur had played with her memory so that nothing that had happened in the garden and onward would be remembered. Far fewer complications that way.

The suave Frenchman climbed down the stairs with the grace of a swan—a deadly, sinister and lascivious swan, with piercing eyes and an overly recognizable tone of voice.

Francis wasted no time in searching for the two, and within moments of his entrance, the Frenchman was upon them like a vulture, a well mannered vulture that had kindly forced its prey into being slowly devoured, rather than waiting for it to die on its own schedule.

"Bonsoir Marquess Harrington, Lady Percy," Francis murmured, bowing low. He bent to kiss Elizabeth's hand, but Alfred quickly and involuntarily pushed it out of the way, much to Arthur's vast relief.

Standing up from his position at the small table, the Marquess grimaced. "It is a good evening indeed," he replied perfunctorily. "But it would be better if you were not here," he added, softly enough so that only Francis could hear.

The Frenchman simply smiled, his stubbled visage shining with mischievous delight.

"I am actually here to make your evening better, Marquess. Might I talk to you for just a little bit in private?" Gesturing to Elizabeth, who was peeking around Alfred's protective and strategically placed shoulder, the Frenchman reasoned, "Ze Lady must be curious about ze rest of society. And considering 'ow much we have monopolized her valuable time, she barely knows anyone else."

Alfred's eyebrows furrowed as he opened his mouth to argue. He reconsidered, however, when he realized that this could very well have to do with Arthur's claim that Francis had finally backed off. If that was the case, the Marquess had to see things for himself.

"Agreed," Alfred murmured at last. He could feel Arthur shift behind him as stupefaction flitted over the actor's face. The surprise, accompanied by a vague apprehension, was also shared by Elizabeth, who could remember very well all the instances she had been alone together with the alluring ambassador. Neither Arthur nor Elizabeth would have put it past Francis to carry out some cleverly disguised seduction, if not fowl play, on Alfred. There was no way Arthur was letting his love get close to that thing over there. Especially after the recent evening of painful events.

"Alfred, I can assure you that I do not need—"

"I will be all right, Lizzie," Alfred murmured, sending a fond and reassuring smile in her direction. It piqued his curiosity greatly that Francis hadn't even bristled at the nickname. Perhaps Arthur really had been right.

Elizabeth gave the Marquess a long assessing look before finally nodding silently. Despite their worries, both actor and Lady trusted the Marquess. He always shone with such bright confidence that it almost made it impossible not to believe in everything he did, and to put faith in every choice he made.

Lady Percy turned to Francis and smiled sweetly, though not quite so warmly anymore. Such smiles were reserved for Alfred and Alfred alone.

She curtsied lightly and murmured, "A good evening to you, then, monsieur." Turning back to the Marquess, Elizabeth continued, "Al, I will—I mean, Alfred—I will be over by the refreshments." For some reason, Alfred insisted that he not have a nickname of any sort. The name came naturally to Elizabeth, however, and thus she often let it slip accidentally, which never failed to make Alfred's lips tighten into a quick grimace before his happy facade returned.

Because that was what it was: a facade. Of all the guests and noblemen present at public events, Alfred probably hated these gatherings the most. Arthur and Elizabeth both knew that, and they always tried their best to keep the man entertained. Hopefully, Francis wouldn't have that same goal in mind as well.

The Marquess nodded in acknowledgement and gave her a kind smile in return.

"I shall miss your sweet company. Expect me back in less than half an hour." Alfred have Arthur a long hard look that clearly meant 'If I don't come back by then, come find me. Or alert international security. Both would be good measures to take, knowing Francis.'

Francis murmured a parting word to Elizabeth like a perfect gentleman would, leaving out any and all hints of flirtation or libidinous intent. The surprises just kept coming for Alfred tonight; this was almost like seeing a new side of Francis altogether.

It was rather unnerving, actually.

Once Elizabeth had curtsied once more, and both men had bowed, the lady left their company. Francis turned on Alfred, an amused expression on his face.

"Come, let us find somewhere quiet."

He began to walk, and Alfred followed, warily watching the ambassador's every move. This amused Francis all the more.

"I really don't bite, you know," Francis chuckled, shaking his head.

"I have physical evidence to the contrary," Alfred muttered darkly, glancing suspiciously at the Frenchman.

Francis laughed. "Oh but Alfred, admit it," he murmured, a soft teasing tone returning to his words, "You love it."

"I did," Alfred shot back quickly.

The Marquess wasn't beyond admitting the dark mistakes of his past, but he also wanted to make sure the truth of the present was perfectly clear as well. No misunderstandings for Francis to further exploit.

The ambassador turned to look at Alfred as they reached one of the empty sitting rooms of the extravagant manor. When their eyes met, one smiling and the other glaring, the air became electrified. That was the thing about old lovers; the emotional intensity never changed, even if the emotions themselves did. And now, instead of adoration and affection, the air was charged with hatred, anger, vengeance, and, most evidently of all...

Regret.

But regret was too passive an emotion. It lurked and hid in the shadows of the heart, too timid to be admitted, but too strong to be fully ignored. Thus, it was lost, shoved aside by other, more boisterous feelings that clamored constantly for the spotlight.

Neither Alfred nor Francis would ever take action to atone for the past, and they both would remain antagonistic and hurt as they fought through the war, stubborn in their pride, refusing to apologize as more and more reasons for an apology appeared.

Hand on the handle, Francis smiled wryly. "I really 'ave no ill intent," he murmured, wrenching the door open. He stepped inside without looking back to see if Alfred would follow. "Trust me."

"Making a deal with the Devil would be a smarter move," Alfred muttered, following the Frenchman inside nevertheless.

Francis chuckled and closed the door behind him. Straightening his jacket, he turned to Alfred, a crafty smile gracing his lips.

"Well, Alfred, perhaps zat is one and the same, non?"


Alfred wandered slowly back down the hall, with only his thoughts as company. Francis had escaped down the corridor in the other direction, leaving the Marques to make his way back to the main hall alone. Which was good. Alfred needed some time to let it all sink in. His brows furrowed as he let Francis's words wash over him once again.

"It is simple, Alfred. I am acquiescing." Then there was that infuriatingly mysterious nonchalant smile. "In ozer words, Elizabeth is all yours."

Alfred hadn't fully believed it when Arthur had first told him, and he still couldn't quite believe it now. It was just so... unreal. It was almost the exact opposite of what Francis would do. The ambassador was probably one of the most determined and dogged people Alfred had ever had the displeasure to know. "Relenting" was not in the man's vocabulary, in English or French.

But even more unnerving than the fact that Francis was conceding his position was the reason why.

When Alfred had asked, Francis had merely replied, dark glint in his eye and all, "I have found a greater prize, Alfred. A higher treasure, a most beautiful... gem."

What was that even supposed to mean? No matter how many times Alfred attempted to pry further into the matter, Francis merely brushed off his questions with further vague answers. And the most infuriating thing was that they both knew the Frenchman was doing it on purpose. Where would be the fun of their little game if they made things easier on each other?

Eventually, the Marquess had realized that he was nearing the half hour mark, and that further conversation would continue to yield zero results—maybe even negative results, considering just how much more annoyed Alfred was getting by the minute.

And so they had parted, Francis apparently happy when circumstances dictated he should have been unsatisfied, and Alfred unsatisfied when he should have been happy.

Something still felt incredibly wrong with that fact, though Alfred eventually brushed it off as paranoia. He had known Francis for too long. Perhaps the man had changed, just as Alfred himself had changed. Perhaps Arthur simply had that power over everybody he touched.

Wouldn't that have been a nice thought?


The next session with Francis came the following afternoon after the Duke and Duchess's wedding ball. It wasn't even a formal invitation of any sort; Francis's empty carriage simply appeared at the door to the guest house, and that was already enough for Arthur to know what he had to do.

Arthur and Alfred had been on their way back from the Marquess's first visit to Esmeralda's grave. It had been a sudden decision to go, but ever since Arthur had started to brighten up Alfred's life, the Marquess had felt his guilt for their manner of parting triple in size and weight. He had been rash and young, a coward in the face of such heavy duties. No doubt Esmeralda had felt betrayed, and though Arthur had never mentioned it, Alfred was sure that Esmeralda had talked to the actor a lot about a boy she once knew years ago. Alfred knew such because Arthur would drop a few facts about him every so often that the Marquess had never mentioned, such as his love of star gazing. It felt a bit unfair, actually, that Arthur should get to know these bits of extra information about Alfred from Esmeralda, but Alfred would never get to know the same in return.

Perhaps that was fitting punishment.

Arthur had gradually come to forgive Alfred for abandoning Esmeralda as time went on. It came naturally, as the actor had more and more chances to learn about how kind hearted and gentle Alfred really was. Whatever the reason, Arthur trusted now that it had been an educated one, if only vaguely so.

Thus, Arthur was happy to reunite the pair, and he had respectfully given Alfred his moment alone with the grave as the actor himself wandered between the other tombstones. He was glad that Alfred had finally found it in himself to face some of his responsibilities, and he was quite pleased that Alfred had chosen him to be there for that turning point in the Marquess's life (the actor pointedly ignored the fact that he had also been the only one to know where Esmeralda's grave was located in the first place).

Alfred had taken his time to get reunited with the only other woman he might have ever loved aside from his own mother, though very much in the same sense. Esmeralda was his home after the death of Catherine Jones, and it had pained him to remember that he had forgotten. He had forgotten her in the time up until Arthur had stumbled his way into Alfred's life, simply because he had been so caught up in trying not to get caught up in the insane affairs of his day-to-day living.

It had been selfish, and now, he apologized for it. He apologized for abandoning her, for disregarding her opinions on the matter, for forgetting—though most of all, for falling in love. Esmeralda had brought Arthur into his life, and for that, Alfred was infinitely grateful. But in return, he had foolishly fallen for the actor, and Alfred wasn't so blind as to be unable to see how much pain his affections caused the actor. Time and time again, Alfred had been rejected indirectly, making stupid comments and rash actions, and he was sure that time and time again, he would continue to be shunned.

But it was due punishment for all of his wrongs, Alfred concluded, to Esmeralda and to Arthur. And as such, Alfred would accept the lashes with gritted teeth and his head held high.

It had been a relief to get at least a little of the guilt off of Alfred's shoulders, and Arthur noticed that the Marquess was a lot more animated on their return trip than he had been on the way there. The fretful and somber mood had been replaced by a warmth that seemed centered upon the Marquess as it spread to all the corners of the carriage. Arthur often found himself shivering, not because such a feeling caused any negative reactions, but rather because it tickled. It was as soft and welcoming as cuddling a baby chick, newly born. In other words, it was in a very positive reaction that Arthur hugged himself as he trembled in the warmth. He adored this feeling.

Talking afterward had been a tad bit awkward, simply because Alfred had been under the mistaken impression that Arthur still harbored resentment for the betrayal. However, as time passed and they began to speak more, Arthur never needed to say anything to let Alfred know that he was forgiven. This act of visiting—and a few others that Alfred could not distinguish, but that Arthur could remember quite fondly—had been sufficient atonement. Alfred had done more than enough to right his wrongs, and it was about time someone gave him a rest.

Their conversation had—for possibly the first time ever—eventually deviated onto the subject of the past, which they had both been passively skirting up until then. But now, somewhere along the line, their relationship had evolved to the point where they wanted each other to know. They both felt the need to be accepted completely and wholeheartedly by the one they loved, dark past and all.

Well, perhaps not all of it. The story with Francis could have been—

Alfred stiffened as his eyes met the sight outside the window. They were turning right into the main lane out in front of the guest manor, and there, awaiting in eerie patience, a jarring serenity, was Francis's carriage.

The Maquess sent an alarmed look Arthur's way, and the actor swallowed, trying his best to hide his fear and growing apprehension. He didn't want to think about it, and his body definitely didn't want to remember, but as he locked eyes with Alfred, Arthur was reminded of why he had to do what he had to do. Alfred's marriage was important, and if this broke into a scandal, not only would Alfred forever be shunned from society, but he would likely hate Arthur for the remainder of his life. Not that Arthur'd probably be alive to experience it anyway.

But yes, it was completely out of a selfish desire to keep Alfred close at hand that Arthur was doing this. The actor never wanted to see vehemence and anger radiate from Alfred toward his direction, and for that, he would do almost anything.

Francis had taken up that challenge quite well.

Alfred stared as they neared the main door. "What is he—"

"Don't worry about it."

The Marquess turned to Arthur, who was passively looking out the window as well, his emotions disguised quite well behind a calm façade.

"Why shouldn't I?" Alfred's eyebrows creased with a curiosity that bent on suspicion. Did Arthur know something Alfred didn't?

Arthur glanced over. "Because he means no harm." To you, at least.

"No harm?" the Marquess cried incredulously. "No harm? Have you forgotten how Elizabeth almost—"

"No, I have not," Arthur replied, grimacing. It was becoming more and more difficult to hold back the growing dread from seeping into his voice. "However, trust me this once. He really comes under a banner of peace."

"How would you know?"

"I have... business with him."

Alfred's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Business? What sort of—"

"Just business." Casual and nonchalant, Arthur. Casual and nonchalant.

Alfred's assessing gaze scanned the actor's face with close scrutiny. Since when did Arthur have secrets with Francis as well? Since when did they even know each other, for that matter?

After a few seconds of silent searching, Alfred relented. Call it love or call it stupidity—for they really were one and the same—but the Marquess decided to put his faith in Arthur. Whatever the actor's reasons were, Arthur seemed to have a smart head on his shoulders—albeit an highly irritable and easily flustered one, at that. But that was all part of his irresistible charm.

As their carriage came to rest behind Francis's royal blue one, Alfred sighed. He turned to Arthur, conveying only about a fifth of his anxiety and apprehension through his eyes; if Arthur knew the full amount of care and worry Alfred actually felt, no doubt the actor would see the most lovesick expression ever known to have existed—except not, because it didn't exist. Alfred made sure of that.

As the door to the carriage opened, Alfred stood up and murmured, "Well, let us get this over with as fast as possible, then. You should go change first, before we—"

"I don't need to change."

Alfred stopped short. "What? Why?"

"Francis has given up on Elizabeth, remember? The business he has is with me and me alone."

"He knows you?!"

"Yes," Arthur replied blandly, giving Alfred a look that cut off any further argument. The actor glanced passively through the side of the open door at the ornate blue and gold carriage. "And with that here, my guess is that I have to go to his castle-or-whatever-you-all-call-it."

"Wait— how—"

"Alfred," Arthur muttered impatiently, not sure why he was annoyed. It was Alfred's place to be curious about the business of his employees, after all.

Huh. Employee. What a bitter word.

The Marquess stared at Arthur for a bit before sighing once again, shoulders sagging down in defeat. He really didn't like hearing that tone come out of Arthur's mouth, especially directed at him—but it seemed like that was all he could ever do around Arthur: annoy him.

Alfred stepped out and subconsciously reached out a hand to help "the Lady" down, despite the fact that Arthur was dressed as his true self at the moment. The actor took the hand without a second thought, and it was only until both his feet were on the ground did he realize that his palm felt far warmer than it should have. As casually as he could, he tried to slip his hand out, which caused Alfred to jump back and let go, startled. Turning to opposite directions, they both blushed vividly, and Alfred fumbled around with his words as he regathered his train of thought.

"I— Francis, he— err... How do you know he's not here?"

Arthur shook his head and began to make his way over to the other cab, glad for somewhere else to look at aside from Alfred's alluring face and something to focus on aside from the faint tingling in his hand.

"Do you think Francis would honestly come here uninvited?" Arthur questioned in reply. "You two seem..." Well, Arthur didn't know the history, but it seemed atrocious. "... At odds," he finished with a sad tone, not lamenting the state of the relationship between the Marquess and the ambassador, but more so lamenting that Arthur did not know what said relationship was. Alfred obviously didn't trust him enough to say, despite them being what Arthur considered to be good friends. It was thoroughly depressing to have such one-sided feelings.

"Good point," Alfred replied, his mind clearly on something else. "Arthur, won't you—"

"I can't. This is important."

Knowing that he had no time to waste, lest he break some clause in their unspoken contract by lacking punctuality for an unplanned time, Arthur didn't even bother to stop back into the house. He obviously was not eager to go, but if he had to, sooner would be better than later. More time to drown his sorrows in rum afterward.

Alfred made a move to stop the actor as he began to climb into the empty carriage, Francis's driver wordlessly holding open the door.

The actor was right; Francis wasn't there. Of course, that made Alfred even more apprehensive than he had been before; he could often get the gist of what was working away in the Frenchman's mind by looking at him, but Alfred could tell absolutely nothing from just an empty carriage.

"Arthur..."

The actor turned mid-entrance and gave Alfred a warm smile. "I'll be fine, Al." And before anything else could be said, Francis's driver (a new one since Alfred had known him long ago) shut the door.

Alfred stood there and stared as the driver made some quick preparations, and then they were off and down the lane.

Of course the Marquess was worried, and of course he wanted to chase after Arthur to the ends of the earth just to ensure his safety, but he was glued to his position by the one fact that was—foolishly—at the absolute forefront of his mind:

Arthur had called him 'Al.'


The first thrust was accompanied by excruciating pain of the sort that ripped screams from the throats of hardened men. Arthur was no hardened man, but he was proud, and that was barely enough; he would not let Francis break him, under any circumstances.

As his bottom lip bled from his literal attempts to bite back his cries, Arthur gripped the sheets and buried his face into the pillow. He would not weep, just as he would not scream. But even as he repeated that mantra over and over in his head, Arthur could already feel the sheets below his face dampen with his noiseless tears.

Sodomy was a sin on every level, and though God and Arthur were not on the best of terms in recent months, there was a key difference between ignoring the laws and actively going against them altogether. It was a key difference that he surprisingly realized he might have been able to overlook with Alfred—a crazy unrealizable dream or nightmare—but definitely not with anyone else.

This was especially difficult because Arthur had been a virgin up until this point, and he, ever the romantic, had always thought that he would have intercourse with only the person to whom he would have vowed to devote his life. Maybe he had been too naive, raised in an environment sheltered from hard reality. Whatever it was, it still stood that Arthur didn't know where along the road he had fallen in with the wrong people—in other words, with Francis Bonnefoy.

Because even though Arthur had experienced many physical, emotional, and psychological changes at the Marquess's unwavering hands, this wasn't Alfred's fault. No. Alfred was Arthur's shining angel, and nothing would mar his beauty, not even the blood and feces that was currently staining the inside of the actor's thighs.

And thus, as he endured Francis's mechanical thrusting, Arthur gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried his best to ignore the taste and smell of blood.

It hadn't been grand or ceremonious, his "taking." Upon Arthur's arrival, Francis greeted him at the door and immediately proceeded to remind the actor of the stakes at hand, lest he be stubborn or feisty—as if Arthur would actually forget. Thinking about the reason was often the only means by which he could endure the pain, emotional, psychological, and physical.

Arthur was immediately asked—ordered—to remove his clothing, as this would be "the day." Arthur only froze for a second of absolute dread at those words before proceeding to fumble perfunctorily through his buttons. Francis hadn't even watched the hesitant strip show as Arthur tried his best to send glares the ambassador's way—docile glares, albeit. He didn't want to cross any lines by accident, and it was a bit difficult to look menacing as his hands shook and his rectal muscles automatically clamped down hard in protest. Arthur didn't want any foreign objects in there again.

When it was time, Arthur was simply left with a jar of cream and was told to prepare himself as Francis went to retrieve some wine from his vast cellar. Perhaps it was a tactic of psychological damage, but forcing the actor to willingly go through certain motions himself hurt more than simply allowing him to be passively used. Arthur felt disgusting as a mere toy, but he felt absolutely and horribly demented as an 'active' participant. He had the choice to stop, in a way. He always did. But he was choosing to go on, to pull his shirt off of his shoulders, to lie face down on the bed, to stick his own finger in a place where fingers should never go.

He made the choice.

The Frenchman had returned with two glasses and a fresh bottle of wine from his own vineyard. Arthur bitterly refused a glass, his fingers still probing the unknown in an attempt to stretch before any true damage would be dealt. Then again, there already wasn't much left to break.

When Francis finally made his way over, there was no warmth, no caress. The man simply flipped Arthur over, placed his member at the entrance, then pushed.

That being said, Arthur actually found it to be surprisingly gentle. Francis took his time, letting Arthur get acquainted with the size. He let Arthur breathe at the beginning as the actor fought down the urge to hurl due to the pain and sickness of it all. Francis had even asked once whether or not he had been going too fast. It was thoroughly surprising, and it frustrated Arthur because he wanted to be angry. Francis just made it difficult because he seemed to actually care about Arthur's well being—a trait quite rare in any rapist.

But Arthur didn't need to think about it much more, considering that as time went on, Francis became less and less gentle. He drank more wine, became more imbibed, and by the end of it, he was thrusting with reckless abandon.

Just as Arthur had been getting used to the pace, Francis had sped up, and the actor began to bleed. Even gritting his teeth through it all, Arthur still released the occasional cries of pain, with Francis obliviously continuing on.

Somewhere through the red haze, Arthur could distinguish that name-calling had also began. During the time, he had thought that Francis had been bad-mouthing Arthur, adding insult to injury in a very literal sense. However, upon later looking back, such a view made no sense. As Francis had thrust Arthur deep into the bed, the man had been wailing about something or other—something about betrayals, bastards, and, odd as it was, the name "Bonnefoy." He kept saying phrases like, "What a wanton whore, you are, Bonnefoy" and "Oh, you like zis, don't you, you sick French slut." Arthur was not French, and he was clearly not a Bonnefoy. Thus, it would seem as if...

As if Francis had been raging at himself.

Thoroughly drunk, the ambassador seemed bent on releasing his troubles into the wild, and those troubles seemed quiet laden with some sort of promiscuous guilt, buried so deep that only alcohol could bring it to light once again. Arthur had no idea what it all was about—until this phrase arrived: "I damn trusted you, Alfred. I trusted your sorry derrière, and you know what? You're not even sorry!"

In his hazy and clouded mind, Arthur barely even registered that the name had even come up. And even when he did so, all it brought was some vague sense if happiness and euphoria—something to which Arthur clung quite desperately, but which he did not have the energy nor capacity to analyze further at that moment, too preoccupied with holding back his pained cries.

When Francis had been spent, he had pulled out immediately and wordlessly stumbled out of the room, leaving Arthur as a wasted slump on the bed, knees tucked underneath them in an achingly strained position, but he was far too pained and exhausted to move out of it. The tears had also started to flow profusely, accompanied by only soft whimpers and minimal shaking (for any further movement hurt Arthur too much for the actor to stomach). The tears came down his cheeks in a constant stream, and Arthur buried his face in the mattress until the sheets were soaked through, the salty droplets mingling with the viscous blood until the white was stained pink—such an innocent color to result from such a depraved act.

It felt like hours before Francis finally returned, at which point Arthur had gradually crumbled down and curled up into a ball amidst all the fluffy sheets. His eyes were closed, his breathing light and less erratic now, though Francis could still see the flushed redness of the actor's cheeks, glistening with fresh tears.

"Arthur," Francis murmured, eyebrows creasing as he sat himself back down on the bed and wearily lit a cigarette. The actor showed no signs of acknowledgement, and so Francis tried again, a but more gently and earnestly this time.

Arthur shifted to turn his head away from Francis, the blaring pain of his rectum needing no further reminder of why it was broken. Arthur was sure his skin was torn in multiple places, and speaking to the man who caused such wounds and lacerations was the last thing he wanted to do at the present—or ever, for that matter.

Sighing, the Frenchman didn't bother to pour a glass as he took the whole bottle of his remaining wine and swigged a large gulp. He had sobered up slightly from his emotional highs, and this guilt that came in the wake of such lucidity was something he never wanted to deal with—because that was what Francis Bonnefoy did best. Run. Run like the perfect representation of his own lion charge, not "passant" or "salient," but rather "queue fourchée."

The ambassador sat in silence for a while, absentmindedly smoking his cigarette as he tried to be just that—absentminded. Arthur had been a pure soul before Francis had come along with his sick plans and twisted ideas, bent on revenge for a deed long gone. And now, he was damaged and deflowered.

But that was what Francis did: he tainted and stained, making the waters run thick with blood. Wars were always his to fight, and lives were always his to ruin... He didn't want it, but it was how he lived, the only life he had ever known. And the only person who had ever made him feel pure, made him feel forgiven...

Well, those were a set of cerulean eyes Francis was sure never he would never see shine at him ever again—and by whose fault, both of them still could not tell.

"Désolé," Francis murmured softly before getting up. "I am sorry."

The Frenchman took the bottle with him as he left once again, face set in a somber expression. He did not make a move to touch Arthur, and for that, the actor was infinitely grateful. He didn't want to be further tainted by Francis's touch. His... soft, caressing touch. Arthur wasn't sure if rape was supposed to be so gentle, all bleeding aside. It was confusing, and the actor hated to be confused.

Anything from a few minutes to a couple hours later, Arthur managed to drag himself silently off of the bed and trudge shakily to the bathroom. He still wanted to make it back for dinner. Make it back to Alfred.


The next morning, Elizabeth was due for a walk through the Jones Estate gardens with Marquess Harrington. Arthur had risen early, his limbs still aching and his legs still slightly bowed. A steaming bath helped, but nothing would ever fully ease be pain of a tortured heart stuck in a very unfortunate situation.

The previous night had been awkward after Arthur had returned, with minimal talking over dinner as Alfred attempted to disguise his anxiety and curiosity over Arthur's clandestine affairs, just as Arthur tried his best to cloak his inability to walk or sit without wincing. The Marquess wanted to respect Arthur's space and privacy, but he was also quite worried because such privacy involved Francis—and no one knew Francis's more sinister sides better than Alfred did.

At least they had ended the night as regularly as possible, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, and that Arthur's eyes might have been red from allergies instead of tears. Alfred really didn't know, so he hoped to the unhearing God that it really was the former rather than the latter.

Whatever it was, though, it put Alfred on edge. And as such, he had lain awake thinking throughout the night, rather than getting much needed rest as he chewed on his lips in anxiety.

Perhaps Francis's plot was deeper than Alfred saw. Maybe Arthur was entangled deep into this somehow, far beyond just the role of Elizabeth. And he also couldn't forget the matter of how the two of them even came to know each other in the first place. That was a deeply troubling enigma unto itself.

Clearly, Alfred felt worried for a variety of reasons, the forefront of which was his own relationship with Elizabeth. Francis had to still be after her, then, if Arthur was acting so suspiciously and secretively. That was the only connection the Frenchman had: Lady Percy.

Right?

Alfred racked his brain for other ideas, but even as the sun rose to greet his sleepless eyes that morning, nothing new had arrived. Whatever it was that Francis was doing, Alfred knew that he could only see it ending badly. And before that happened, Alfred needed to play the first move and defend his position, defend his princess.

Defend Arthur.

Though it stung with a chronically throbbing pain that Arthur did not trust Alfred enough to confide in him the truth, Alfred nevertheless felt defensive. It was foolish and silly, he knew, for Arthur was an adult and could thus take care of himself just fine. But he shouldn't have to, Alfred reasoned. Arthur deserved a life in which he would never have to work, worry or wear down, and Alfred had subconsciously made a decision to make that a reality to the best of his ability. Arthur deserved the best. Only the best.

And the Marquess knew just where to start.

Thus, as Arthur was getting ready for his somewhat pointless morning out as Elizabeth, Alfred was grooming himself with extra care, because to him, today wasn't pointless at all. It was to be a day he would remember for the rest of his life, and he had to look perfect. Well, more perfect than usual, that is.

To make the morning more realistic, and as a habit they had gotten into back when private acting between just the two of them had actually mattered, Alfred and Arthur had breakfast apart. It gave them time to gather their thoughts, arrive into their roles, and in general prepare their best fronts to present to their nonexistent audience.

Again, this had been necessary back when Francis had been actually part of the picture—although the Marquess wasn't sure the Frenchman was quite out of it yet. Arthur knowing Francis was still a topic of great suspicion, and Alfred had never known the ambassador to give up without a very good reason. This scheme had to be deeper than Alfred had realized, and the first step toward better security would be taken today.

The Marquess fumbled nervously with the sapphire ring in his pocket as he walked out to meet Arthur—er, Elizabeth—in the garden. It was an excited sort of nervous, and despite his constant worries over Francis the night before, Alfred found that he was actually quite happy. Well, who wouldn't be, if he had the opportunity to spend a morning strolling along through a beautiful garden with the one he loved so much? For a relaxed walk with Arthur, even Elizabeth's guise and her idiotic personality, or Francis and his troublesome schemes, could be ignored.

"Lady Percy!" Alfred called, vaguely breathless from his light jog over. His eyes were glued to that graceful form, seated on a stone bench under the shade of a weeping willow. Could Arthur be more beautiful?

"Please pardon my tardiness," he huffed, finally arriving to stand in front of her, smiling brightly. "I was, err, held up."

Truth be told, Alfred merely had been a nervous wreck over breakfast, trying to force down food as his mind swirled around what he planned to do that morning: get back at Francis, yes, but more importantly, finally pull Arth—Elizabeth—into Alfred's secure grasp. It was a gigantic leap, and looking at Arthur's graceful form now, his elegant, refined carriage, whatever food Alfred had managed to swallow now threatened to rise once again.

Elizabeth giggled and stood up, closing the book she was reading. Arthur winced and stumbled ever so slightly, causing him to fall right onto the Marquess, who caught the Lady with his lightning reflexes, letting out a surprised gasp in the process.

"Arthur, are—" Amidst his worry, Alfred mistakenly forgot his role, earning him a confused look from Elizabeth, who was still recovering in his arms.

"E-Elizabeth," Alfred amended. "What is the matter?"

The Lady laughed it off, a delectable blush gracing her cheeks as she righted herself with the Marquess's help. It was ridiculously difficult to stand, especially without wincing or groaning. Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to keep from whimpering.

"I simply tripped, Al. That is all. Thank you."

"Alfred," the Marquess corrected gently but firmly, "You're welcome." He didn't like hearing that nickname come out of anyone's lips except for his late mother's—well, almost anyone's. Those with dazzlingly brilliant emerald eyes and riveting smiles could be an exception.

Elizabeth's blush turned an even darker shade of crimson as she nodded wordlessly in acknowledgment. Neither Arthur nor Elizabeth understood the reasoning, but Alfred's life was, disappointingly, his own, and as such, Arthur would not be privy to such secrets.

"Shall we be off, then?" Elizabeth asked, hoping to change the subject to something less puzzling, and to divert he attention away from her embarrassing stumble.

Alfred smiled and held out his arm, keeping a close eye on Elizabeth, despite his relaxed visage. The girl seemed to be uncomfortable somehow, and the Marquess couldn't place whether or not that was Arthur's true state. The actor had seemed fine yesterday—well, as fine as anyone that had business with Francis could be—but perhaps Alfred simply hadn't been watching closely enough. Or maybe he was watching too closely now, not that he minded, when there was something so enchanting to be seen.

Elizabeth gratefully took the Marquess's arm and smiled sweetly as they began to walk.

"Are you enjoying your book?" Alfred asked lightly, trying to disguise his worried eyebrow crease behind small conversation. Was it him, or was Arthur actually leaning quite heavily on Alfred as they walked? No, it was probably just Francis-induced paranoia. The bastard.

Elizabeth nodded, smiling. "Oh yes! It is quite interesting. Thank you for the recommendation, Alfred." Elizabeth reveled in the feel of that name rolling off her tongue. Though she had had that privilege for a few weeks now, she never tired of it. Alfred. She could call him Alfred. And Arthur wasn't even sure if the happiness Elizabeth was feeling was merely actually an extension of his own; it was such a wonderful name and a fantastic privilege.

Alfred laughed. "You are quite welcome, m'lady." His eyes twinkled. "I had a feeling you"—and by that, he meant Arthur—"would enjoy it." Alfred was fast coming to learn that the two of them shared quite a lot in literature preferences.

As they walked, the Marquess guided Elizabeth around, showing her various parts of horticultural significance in his vast and magnificent garden. And as Elizabeth uttered various exclamations of wonderment at its beauty, all Alfred could do was stare and silently wonder at her beauty instead—well, the beauty that lay underneath that dress and makeup.

Arthur never failed to look stunning, no matter what he wore or how he acted. Alfred's eyes were always dragged back to the actor's face, however far they strayed. It was definitely nothing to complain about, for Alfred was sure he could be content for the rest of his life even if he only could see that one face. Arthur would always be enough. More than enough.

And as Alfred fumbled with the sapphire ring in his pocket, all he could think about was what a lucky guy he was that "more than enough" was walking right beside him—and if all went according to plan, such perfection would continue to be by his side for at least a few more years to come. This was a long term job, after all, and neither wanted to think about how it would end just yet.

They finally rounded a row of hedges, and Arthur found himself once again at the entrance to Paradise Lost. Elizabeth had never entered before, and suddenly, the actor was gripped by an irrational desire to keep it that way. This place was his and his alone to share with Alfred. No ditsy girl was going to invade it, fictional or not.

"Ah, I think I would love to see the rose garden, Alfred," Arthur forced through Elizabeth's unwilling mouth. Over my dead body, he thought fiercely, as Elizabeth's part of his mind tried to protest. In a life where so much had been taken from him—his manhood, his pride, his dignities—Arthur would fight hard for whatever little he still had to his name. He knew it was pathetic and immature, but when it came to matters that dealt with Alfred, Arthur learned by now that he rarely listened to reason.

The Marquess looked surprised. "The rose garden? Are you sure, Elizabeth?" He gave Arthur a curious glance, somewhat suspecting that this was the actor's suggestion instead of the Lady's.

With uncharacteristically hardened and determined eyes, Elizabeth replied, "Yes." It was odd, however, for her voice was flustered and confused.

Alfred judged the girl for a moment of silence before tugging on her semi-unwilling arm and walking in. "I think you'll like it, Elizabeth." He grinned. "I have a surprise for you."

"Wait, Alf—" Arthur began, but by then, they had already stepped through the hedge and into the sacred world beyond.

"All right, Elizabeth," Alfred murmured, turning to face her. "Please, sit there." He gestured to the wide chaise lounge on which Arthur and Alfred had so often read together before, and the actor stiffened.

"A-Are you su—"

"Please," Alfred begged, chewing on his lip. He wanted to get this over with before his nerve failed him for good.

Arthur would have argued, but he looked up just then and saw Alfred's obviously flustered cheeks and thought better of it. It was apparent that something was wrong, and Arthur's curiosity (and worry) on the matter overpowered his immature resilience.

The actor tucked his dress beneath his legs and gingerly sat down with perfect grace. Arthur watched with apprehension as Alfred seemed to glance about himself, trying to find the right words for something that escaped Arthur's knowledge entirely. Elizabeth, ever oblivious, was merely sitting in excitable anticipation for this so-called 'surprise.' Arthur hated surprises, considering that too many of them in his lifetime had turned out for the worse. But perhaps because it would be coming from (an adorably flustered) Alfred, things would be different this time around.

After quite an uncomfortable stretch of silence, Arthur began to wonder if the surprise was just a chance to see Alfred's face cast in such a beautiful and warm light as he futzed about, framed perfectly by the trees behind him, as the soft breeze swept up his hair into tastefully messy swirls. That was definitely a pleasant surprise, but that couldn't be just it, could it? Was Alfred really that narcissistic? All right, maybe yes.

Slightly reaching out with a dainty hand, Elizabeth began, "Alfred, are you—"

Then Alfred fell to his knees. At first, Arthur thought that the Marquess had been hurt somewhere, and had immediately moved to assist him back up. But for once, Elizabeth was the smarter one of the two, as her part of Arthur's mind directed his attention to what Alfred was holding out in his hands as his flushed face was diverted to the ground.

A ring. A sapphire ring. The sapphire ring.

Before Arthur could react with any more than a blank expression and vague sputtering, Alfred took a deep breath and proceeded right into his well-rehearsed speech.

Now or never Alfred. You love him. You love him so much. Let's go.

"Lady Elizabeth Percy," the Marquess began halfheartedly, wincing at the name. Arthur Kirkland, he thought soothingly. Arthur Kirkland...

Alfred glanced up at the girl's face, but what he saw was just Arthur. Arthur Kirkland, staring back at him, face glowing in the sunlight, emerald eyes open with surprise—but more importantly... warmth?

The Marquess couldn't distinguish acting from reality well, but he liked to imagine that that small pleasurable smile and that sweet, sensual blush were completely meant for him, straight from Arthur's heart, Elizabeth be damned.

Alfred smiled as they made eye contact, which sent Arthur's heart racing off at unhealthy speeds as he looked down at those glowing blue eyes, alight with joy and...

Love.

How jealous Arthur felt of Elizabeth at the moment. How was it fair that a fictional girl deserved to be looked at with such desire? Such a stupid and insufferable girl. Why did she possess Alfred's love when Arthur, who so obviously loved him more, could never have it?

The Marquess took a shaky breath and tried again, more confident this time, seeing that Arthur, or at least Elizabeth, was just as flustered and bothered as he was.

"Lady Elizabeth Percy"—Arthur Kirkland, you magnificent angel—"would you please allow me the honor of taking your hand in marriage?" I would protect you forever, Arthur, if only Fate and our world would allow it. Alfred grinned at Arthur, happiness seeping out of him and permeating the air with the promise of so many wonderful memories to come.

I love you.

Arthur began to cry. He hadn't intended to do so, and it wasn't as if a marriage proposal was unexpected, but... He was simply far too happy, yet so depressed at the same instance. This proposal was for Elizabeth, after all, and the actor couldn't help but want it solely for himself. Thus, they were tears of happiness and sadness that pooled in his eyes.

Alfred was startled, and reached up with a gentle hand to wipe away those droplets that threatened to spill over onto those beautifully crimson cheeks.

"Arth—Elizabeth, dear, are you all right? I'm sorry to startle you. You don't have to give your—"

"Yes, Alfred. Yes, of course!" Elizabeth cried, flinging her arms around the Marquess's surprised shoulders. Arthur had a quick, oft-held debate with himself about Alfred and religion, but this time, the other side of the battle was oddly silent. No objections to this crazy, fantastical love, and no objections to marriage either. Well, that meant God must have disappeared for good, once and for all.

... Finally.

Arthur welcomed this development with open arms, as he squeezed Alfred's shoulders and reveled in the warmth that radiated from that muscular body, so different than the heat stemming from the bright sun high above.

Alfred relaxed into the sudden embrace, chuckling lightly as his arms encircled the actor's slim waist. As long as he thought about Arthur instead of Elizabeth, Alfred could consider this moment to be one of the happiest in his life. Alfred Jones was finally getting married. To Arthur Kirkland, no less. And practically nothing could convince him otherwise.

Arthur breathed in Alfred's unmistakable scent and reluctantly pulled back, though only to the point where he could see those bright blue eyes shining back at him. They stared at each other in a moment of still, companionable silence, smiling as Arthur silently cried anyway, despite Alfred's earlier efforts. Who cared about God when there was one to be had right in front of him, right in the flesh? Who cared about Francis or rape or blackmail or anything at all when perfection was kneeling right there before Arthur? Happiness was his to have, and Lord help anyone who got in Arthur's way—including The Lord Himself.

Alfred chuckled as he reached up to wipe another year away, and Arthur surprised the Marquess by leaning his cheek into the man's hand. Making confident eye contact, the actor smiled sweetly.

"I love you, Alfred Jones. Nothing will ever change that."

Then they kissed—the beginning of many more to come. And both of them were too wrapped up in their joy and affections, and the feeling of gently roaming lips, to notice that Arthur had used Alfred's "real" name, or that Arthur's voice had—for just a moment—returned to his normal male tones as those last words had been spoken.

Straight from Arthur's heart.


Preparations for the wedding began immediately. Alfred wanted to get through it as fast as possible, for as much as he loved Elizabeth, or at least the actor behind her, the Marquess hated social events, especially ones centered around him.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was ecstatic. She was so wrapped up in the magic of such a grand wedding that she could barely sleep at night—much to Arthur's irritation. He, too, hated large events, especially with plenty of people he did not know. The actor had always imagined that his wedding would be an intimate affair, with only immediate family members and maybe a few friends in attendance. A small service would be held, then a hearty dinner would be had.

Then again, this wasn't his wedding, was it?

And as such, Arthur was left wincing—as much as Alfred—at the elaborate floral displays and grandiose decoration schemes that Elizabeth picked. So much focus had been placed on these choices and proceedings, in fact, that Arthur had almost forgotten about Francis altogether—until the empty carriage arrived once again to greet him one afternoon.

For the next four weeks, Arthur lived a painful double life that strained his relationship with Alfred as much as it physically strained his body. Visits with Francis became more and more frequent with each passing week, though the ambassador never seemed to lose his fervor. If anything, he drank more and thrust harder every time.

As time went on, Francis forced Arthur into more base acts. The actor thought he had experienced everything by this point, having physically tasted the ambassador's arousal many a times by now, taken the man's member in all positions imaginable, and cried for mercy as foreign objects were inserted where they definitely should not have been. And all the while, Francis muttered curses about Alfred and his own life, dark enough to match these indecent acts.

After every session, however, the Frenchman apologized, and that grated on Arthur's nerves. The actor wanted to be able to hate the ambassador 100%, and it didn't help that his blackmailer all of a sudden had a conscience. Francis was supposed to be the demon, rather than a person who seemed to be wrestling with a fair share of demons himself. It made him... relatable, and that made the situation demented to no end.

The ambassador even prepared a bath for Arthur each time, gave him salve for his pains, and presented him with more food and nourishment than he could ever think to stomach. It was a thoroughly puzzling combination of actions, and though Arthur wanted to hate Francis's guts, he found that he couldn't. Not completely at least. It seemed that the ambassador had been scorned too, and Arthur had come to learn quite quickly that it was Alfred who had done the job.

Many a times, Arthur wanted to ask the Marquess about... well, the question. Did Alfred "fall that way"? Or was it because he was "normal" that Francis felt so scorned and hurt? Had the Frenchman declared himself, only to be shot down and humiliated for it? That would have explained the pain quite well—but after seeing Francis in his broken state, Arthur was even more discouraged with asking than ever before. This would be a secret that he would apparently take to the grave.

Thus, even as Francis became more violent—though even more apologetic—each time, Arthur kept his mouth firmly shut. This was his problem and his business, and pulling Alfred into any of it would have ruined the precarious balance that Arthur had so carefully managed to build. After all, who wouldn't be happy that they were marrying the Marquess of Devonshire? Arthur could be more than satisfied with just that.

Or so he hoped.

Alfred observed these proceedings and held his tongue. It was merely curiosity at first, but that had quickly evolved into apprehension as time went on. Eventually, Alfred felt so worried that he often was unable to sleep at night. Was it just his imagination or did Arthur seem more and more rugged as the weeks passed? Was he more passive, even as Elizabeth became more energetic as the wedding date approached?

Announcements had been made, and invitations were in the process of being sent out. With the wedding only three weeks away, Alfred thought he himself ought to have been happier. Well, he was happy; it just pained him to see that Arthur's mood was growing darker and darker with each passing day.

It started with silence during dinner, then it moved to eating dinner alone, and now it was bordering upon not even eating dinner at all. When Alfred had asked about whether or not Arthur would have liked to go home to see his parents for a bit, all he received was a shrug and a painfully obvious fake smile in return. It hurt to see that there was so much that Arthur simply wasn't letting the Marquess know. Arthur didn't trust Alfred, and that hurt the man more deeply than he'd ever let on.

Alfred had kept silent because he, on the other hand, trusted Arthur to handle his own matters well. But he should have known better. The Marquess didn't trust the other half of the problem, after all, the scruffy-chinned, escargot-eating half. And thus, Alfred finally lost his resolve one day, as Arthur came back from one of his meetings with Francis, a bright red mark upon his cheek where the Frenchman seemed to have struck the actor.

That was unforgivable.

The Marquess had intercepted the actor in the halls, standard greeting at the ready, when he spied the wound that marred that unblemished skin. Alfred rushed over and temporarily forgot himself as he brushed a hand against Arthur's cheek.

"Arthur! What happened?" The Marquess continued to caress the actor's cheek, an action which neither of them thought as odd anymore simply because it occurred so much under the guise of Elizabeth that it still seemed natural now. It was an action of care and love, so why wouldn't it be fitting?

The actor flinched a little, but let his face settle into Alfred's warm hand, glad for that gentle caress. He sagged his shoulders and closed his eyes.

"Nothing happened, Alfred. I simply fell." His words were heavy with the weight of the world, though Arthur sounded even more pained and tired than Alfred imagined Atlas would.

Rubbing gentle circles on Arthur's cheek with his thumb, the Marquess frowned. "You fell on one specific part of your cheek and nothing else?" Alfred asked skeptically and somewhat impatiently. He hadn't intended to sound snappish, but he was already edging to head over to Le Chateau and give Francis a piece of his mind—and maybe a piece of his fist as well in return.

Arthur shook his head, rubbing it further into that warm and soothing hand. "Really, nothing happened," he murmured. "Just leave it, please."

The Marquess's frown deepened. "Arthur, I can't just—" Any further words died on Alfred's lips, for it was then that Arthur fainted right into his arms.


The actor came to several hours later, finding himself lying in a bed that wasn't quite so foreign anymore. He had been here once, he registered, as he blinked the initial blurriness away. The canopy looked familiar, though he couldn't quite place its location... something weeks ago... something... Alfred. Oh. Oh.

This was Alfred's bedroom.

Arthur shot up, but stopped midway, wincing as he fell backward once again. His entire body ached, and any movement at all besides a minute neck roll hurt enough to make the actor whimper. Francis really had done a number on him this time, after having drunk about a bottle and a half of wine instead of the usual three-quarters. Apparently, a significant date was coming up in Francis's history with Alfred, and Arthur guessed it was the day Francis was rejected or something of the sort, considering the hysterics the usually calm and controlled Frenchman had devolved into over their last few sessions. And such crazed, passionate sorrows were taken out on none other than Arthur himself, who had the aches and bruises to prove it. Well, at least his cheek had been the least serious of his injuries. It would have been terrible if Alfred—

"Arthur. You're awake."

The voice came from the doorway, which had opened sometime amidst Arthur's distracted, gradually awakening look-around. The actor froze involuntarily, though he relaxed the moment he registered that it was Alfred's voice instead of that of some stranger, or worse, Francis.

Sending the Marquess a small smile, Arthur murmured, "Hey, Alfred. What hap—"

"I should be asking you that." The expression on Alfred's face obliterated any trace of a smile from the young actor's face. It was a dark and brooding look, rings around the eyes and all. The Marquess looked like he hadn't slept for days, though Arthur was sure he couldn't have been out for that long of a time.

"What are you talking about?" Of course, in the pit of his stomach, Arthur already had a strong feeling he knew.

Alfred crossed the room in a few quick strides, his lips set in a tight grimace that made the actor flinch to look at. It was obvious that Alfred was angry, though he also seemed to be sick with worry as well. Arthur just hoped that the former feeling wasn't directed at him, even if the latter was. After all the pains of his life so far, the actor wasn't sure he could take Alfred's anger on top of that as well.

The Marquess hesitated slightly before sitting down at the foot of the bed, his eyes carefully studying the sheets that so respectfully hid Arthur's body away—that bruised and battered body which the actor had said nothing about these past few weeks.

Alfred took a deep breath through clenched teeth as he avoided looking at the actor, who could see those defined neck muscles work as Alfred struggled to calm his emotions. After a few moments, Alfred looked up, made eye contact, and got straight to the point, his voice hardened steel.

"Have you been having sex with Francis, Arthur?"

Arthur was stunned. Absolutely stunned.

Of all the things that the actor had been expecting, even questions about his wounds and pains, he had not expected the Marquess to jump straight to intercourse like that. It was far too accurate and unnerving to even be thinkable at the moment, and it took at least a minute of wide-eyed staring for Arthur to even begin to comprehend that that question was being asked. By Alfred. Alfred Jones was asking. About sodomy with Francis. Sodomy. With Francis.

The actor opened and closed his mouth a few times as his face gradually reddened. He felt awfully self conscious all of a sudden, and subconsciously bunched the sheets up about this shoulders as he finally managed to sputter, "O-Of course not! Alfred, that is a r-ridiculous notion!"

This comment apparently set off some switch in the Marquess, who stiffened with sudden anger and annoyance. Whatever care he had intended to feel toward that bruised and battered actor fell to the wayside in the face of Alfred's wrathful wave of jealousy. Pure and unadulterated jealousy. The Marquess had always been a slave to his darker emotions.

"Ridiculous, Arthur? Is it, really?"

The Marquess gripped an irritated fistful of sheets and pulled it forcefully off of Arthur's body, which, the actor only noticed then, was unclothed. Someone had taken the kindness to begin changing him as he had been unconscious, so weary had he been before, but had stopped upon noticing these wounds. Somehow, Arthur already knew that that "someone" had been Oswald, and that, dutiful as always, the butler had gone running to find Alfred the moment he had laid eyes on the flowers of purple and red on Arthur's usually unblemished skin.

The actor made a grab for the sheets, but paused and winced as his aching muscles rebelled and screamed out in protest. The cooler air hit his inflamed skin with jarring suddenness, almost knocking the wind out of him in its passive yet destructive pressure.

"Look at this, Arthur," the Marquess growled darkly. "Look at this!"

The actor squeezed his eyes shut, curling up against the pillow and shivering. He didn't want to look at all, because he already knew. Far too well.

Arthur knew it. He knew that this day would come, when he would be found out. He had foreseen this moment, just as he had foreseen Alfred's hatred, though he had hoped that it wouldn't be the case. In vain, apparently. It was clear in those flaming eyes that the Marquess was livid and filled with disgust. After all, what sort of employee whored himself out so, right under the nose of his employer?

Alfred himself could barely look at Arthur's body, though he forced himself to do so as a painful reminder of what he had failed to do: protect Arthur Kirkland as he had silently promised. Alfred should have known better; he should have known that Francis's involvement should have bode for dark tempests, rather than the calm, clear skies that they had been receiving these past few weeks. It had been Alfred's own naiveté that had allowed this to happen to Arthur, and it was himself that was solely to blame for these wounds. Alfred's anger was for himself and himself only, but Alfred had always been a poor shot when it came to directing emotions.

"I can't— I mean, just— Arthur!" Calm, Alfred. Calm. Look at him. He's terrified. Calm. Dear God. CALM, MAN.

But however hard he tried, Alfred couldn't still his heart as his soul blazed with pain and his ears pounded with the sound of rushing blood. As he forced his eyes to stare at Arthur's battered body, with the knowledge that those wounds had likely been caused by sexual intercourse (Arthur's inner trousers had been suggestively stained when they had been removed earlier), Alfred felt like he wanted to punch several walls. He wanted to hurt himself just as he had hurt Arthur, just to experience some of the pain that his ignorance had caused his love to feel. Dear god, why was Arthur even like this? Why did this have to happen? What had Alfred done wrong?!

The Marquess swiftly stood up and turned so that he was no longer facing the actor. He was far too frustrated as he stood there, fists clenched. Willing for himself not to blow up and actually break something he knew he'd regret later. However, such attempts at calm were once again in vain, as after a moment of pin-drop silence, Alfred whirled around once again, still just as worked up, if not more so than before.

"Tell me, Arthur. Did you or did you not have sexual intercourse with Francis?!" The frustration had come full on now, and any trace of reason had disappeared. There was no space for regret or second thoughts at the moment, as self-hatred and jealousy mixed together to form a lethal concoction. Alfred was beyond the logic of any words anyone could offer now.

Arthur was still a bit too stunned, spent and strained to even bother to pull the sheets back as he squeezed his eyes shut. He was this close to tears, and any movement he made or word he uttered was sure to send him over the edge. What an embarrassment this was. What a dishonor. A disgrace. The actor could already see it in those cerulean eyes. Any respect Alfred had ever had for Arthur was gone. Just like that. Lost forever.

Well, at least he no longer had anything to lose now.

"... Yes," Arthur admitted softly, a shamed whisper that was a stark contrast to the harsh tones Alfred's words had taken.

The Marquess wanted Arthur to see that he had merely been worried, that this was just great care and anxiety speaking, rather than hatred, anger, suffering and jealousy. But he couldn't. The Marquess had always been terrible at controlling his darker emotions, and whenever they surfaced, in those rare instances, nothing could be done to stop him, even though Arthur's cowering form came quite close.

"Yes? Yes? After all of this, and all you can say is—"

"YES, ALFRED. BLOODY DAMN YES!" Arthur couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't take those stinging words which cut right through his heart. He couldn't take that look that was so full of anger and hatred, those flaming eyes that threatened to burn Arthur down straight to the core, until nothing was left but a skeleton, a ghost of the man he once was. Francis had already done so much of the breaking, and Alfred was merely finishing the job. It wasn't a surprise that Alfred was so disgusted, of course, and Arthur had thought about it many times before, but that didn't mean that it hurt any less, and at this point, Arthur simply could not handle any more of the pain.

Before Alfred could reply, for he was visibly stunned as well at the sudden outburst, Arthur continued, eyes still squeezed shut, head buried in the pillows, fingers clutching the sheets for dear life, "I had sex with Francis, Alfred. I have 'known him.' I took a flyer. Blew the grounsils. The whole bread and butter and basket-making. I had Francis's prick stuffed up my arsehole, if you will. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?"

Silent tears streamed down Arthur's cheeks at this point, and his voice shook with the effort as he felt frustration and disgust permeate through him as well. Arthur felt like the lowest of the low, more worthless than clothing was in a session with Francis. He felt thoroughly used and tossed about, and Alfred's cold, hard gaze was not helping Arthur whatsoever in changing those views.

The Marquess was stunned into silence, as he looked upon Arthur's shaking form. The actor looked so pitiful and weak in that moment that Alfred involuntarily took a step forward before he remembered to stop himself. Alfred didn't deserve to touch Arthur, after failing him so miserably. It was his fault that Arthur was so hurt, and Alfred would not allow himself the reward of being able touch such a body when he couldn't even protect it from harm.

His voice softened a little, however, just as his expression did, when he let his shoulders drop a little and ask, "Why?" The words were still uttered through clenched teeth, and Alfred still felt like giving Francis a nice punch to the gut—and a whole lot more—but seeing Arthur like this broke him on the inside. Arthur was crying, his body was shaking, and he looked so very cold despite the warm, summer weather. Not being able to hold that body close was the largest punishment Alfred could ever give himself for his own stupidity.

Arthur had to do some quick thinking at that question. He didn't quite know what to say, for how exactly could one explain that one loved one's employer enough to sacrifice so much for them? Alfred was clearly "normal" in that sense, as Arthur could see quite well by this point, and any such news would only garner more disgust from the Marquess, which Arthur could not take. He was already so close to breaking as it was, and it was only in thinking of that sweet smile and bright laughter—which he was sure would never be directed his way ever again—that Arthur could continue onward.

His mind was in a haze, however, making it quite difficult to think. Arthur's body was still sore, and excruciating pain shot through his limbs every time his body shook with fresh tears. The actor wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear, and he felt so much self-loathing at the moment that it was difficult to concentrate on anything else other than all the negativity.

Alfred's expression hardened once again as he crossed his arms impatiently. His voice was deadly quiet but still just as firm as he repeated once again, "Why, Arthur." It was no longer even a question, but a demand for an answer, a reason why Alfred shouldn't fire Arthur right on the spot, it seemed. The actor couldn't bear it anymore. He couldn't deal with the pain, couldn't cope with the sadness, couldn't stomach the frustration and hurt that threatened to burst open his heart. He wanted to scream, let the pain tear from his throat as he released his demented sorrows into the world. Arthur Kirkland had nothing left to lose, and by god, was he going to go down with this ship, by his choice or not.

"Why, Alfred?" Arthur repeated through clenched teeth of his own. "Why?"'

Alfred glanced over, caught by the sound of Arthur's tone. There was so much anger in those words, almost as if questioning that Alfred had even had the audacity to ask such a ridiculous question. The Marquess immediately felt regret course through him, vying with the anger and jealousy for purchase in his heart and in his conscience. After all, it was obvious why, wasn't it? Francis, the sick, twisted bastard of a frog, had obviously raped Arthur, and the poor actor was now merely stuck in this cycle, unable to escape from the ambassador's toxic touch. Alfred had already reached this conclusion on his own even before Arthur had awoken, so why was he stubborn, stupid and masochistic enough to still—

"Because I love him, Alfred."

Wait. Wait. "What?"

"Francis, Alfred," Arthur spat out angrily. "I had intercourse with him because I love him, as people in love are wont to do."

Alfred thought he had arrived at a sound conclusion before, but then again, perhaps he had also arrived at the wrong idea altogether.

Very, very wrong indeed.


References/Notes:

1. "charge," as in "lion charge," means an emblem, usually as part of a crest or a shield. Look up lions and their meanings in regards to heraldry if you are further interested in representations and significance. "Passant" and "salient" are both strong symbolic representations, where as "queue fourchée" is one of the many ways a lion's tail can be depicted to represent cowardice. In case you can't tell, I like crests. A lot.

2. Those euphemisms that Arthur used to describe sex are all true sex euphemisms from the 1800s. God, I love looking at weird phrases from history, and looking at the slang for sex euphemisms is often one of the best ways to learn about a culture and what it valued/what was relevant at the time. I'm weird for thinking that, I know. But it's true.


Author's Comments:

You know I want to apologize. I want to apologize so much, all the time, for everything: for being late, for being inactive, for having a life, and for still failing to reply to everything. I've been chipping away at things a little at a time, and I swear I am making progress. There are just a lot of messages to get through.

I'm sorry that you had to sit through that FrUK. I had to sit through writing it, too, and that was one of the reasons that this chapter took me so long to get up and running. I had to stop every half hour or so and go prancing off into USUK land for hours before I could retrieve enough of my sanity back to return and continue writing/editing.

Even though I have yet to reply to everything, I urge you to keep sending messages and reviews my way! I have read through everything so far, though I've yet to have a chance to reply, I know. And they make me so happy to read, and in no way do they inconvenience me or something. Even if you say to not reply to your message, I will, simply because I want to talk to you! You guys are the highlight of my life, the reason why I strive so hard to write, and write well, for that matter. Or at least to the best of my abilities. And I can never thank you enough for giving me so much help and inspiration!

In other news, every time I write "seductive ambassador" or "lascivious ambassador" or anything else along those lines, I always think about England instead, since he is the Erotic Ambassador of the World, after all. *wink wonk*

Last but not least, oh my god. I have fanart, guys. FANART. And it's so damn beautiful that I am practically crying from joy. You guys are such wonderful artists, and I get so much inspiration from these art pieces for bot this fic and for my assassin Arthur ask blog as well. If you guys want to see it, I have the links up under the "A Not-So-Classic Romance" section of my profile page. Please, do go check it out! It's really, really good. =3=

I love you guys so much!
Galythia

P.S. Good news! I am so disgusted with the FrUK that I am cutting that section short. You can expect very little FrUK from hereon out, so the worst of that storm has passed (I can't say how it's going to be for the the other tempests to come, however).